


Five Senses

by live_die_be



Category: Final Fantasy VII
Genre: M/M, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-17
Updated: 2012-04-17
Packaged: 2017-11-05 19:05:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/409974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/live_die_be/pseuds/live_die_be
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the smell of blood, the sound of rain, the feel of icy cold, the taste of words that feel so wrong on your lips and it looks like the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Senses

**Author's Note:**

> Crossposted to ff.net and LJ.

There's confusion and delusion and the way that after five years of something awful your mind won't let you remember it's impossible to tell whether this is a dream or a memory or reality or something entirely different. There's cold rain, pinpricks of ice against exposed skin, a sense of urgency you can't explain, a deepseated worry that won't leave as you drag yourself forward, just those few feet it takes to reach him.

A name comes to you. "Z-Zack."

It's _his_ voice and the way _he_ smelled and the feeling of strong arms around you when really it's sticky hot blood on your hands, on your cheek and your hair and someone speaking in a familar boyish manner saying something very important that at the moment you can't quite comprehend since your mind is still singing, humming, murmering repetative pleas, prayers of _whywhywhywhywhy_.

The voice is desperate, breathless and masculine. You knew him, you _know_ him. You repeat what he says in a dazed, bewildered tone as you still can't quite understand how you got there, exactly who he is, and why this all seems _wrong_ , utterly wrong.

It's spiky black hair and a smile that lights up a room. It's violet mako bright eyes gleaming with a promise, with a secret, that's what it is, at least, in your mind.

But here, _right now_ , in the rain with your knees in the mud as you sit next to a body not quite dead, still speaking and it's a sword's hilt in your hands that feels right when it shouldn't since you were the failure, not the success, since _he_ was the hero, not you.

It's the sound of his breaths, raspy, catching in his throat and the way your mind distantly registers the amount of pain he must be in, how little time he must have left but you don't, you _can't_ do anything other than sit by him as his breath stutters and stops, his chest stops moving. Heart stops beating.

It's the contrast of hot tears running down your cheeks and cool rain splashing on your face.

Someone is screaming and it might be you.

  



End file.
